Dog Lord
by summerfool
Summary: Cullen is tasked with requisitioning war dogs for the Inquisition. He makes a new friend. Slow-burn Trevelyan/Cullen.


**Dog Lord**

 **Summary:** Cullen is tasked with requisitioning war dogs for the Inquisition. He makes a new friend. Slow-burn Trevelyan/Cullen.

 **Author's note:** The idea of Cullen getting a Mabari puppy is simply too endearing to pass up. That is all.

* * *

"Why do you so vehemently oppose me on this, Commander? Clearly you are better suited than any of us for overseeing this particular task."

The clip impatience of Cassandra Penthaghast's brusquely Nevarran intonation had Cullen pinching the bridge of his nose, willing the beginnings of a monumental headache to go away.

"As well you know, _Seeker_ ," he ground out with chafed emphasis on her title, "I have never been particularly fond of wasting my time on trivialities. Time, I might add, that I do not have much of to spare lately."

Cassandra leaned forward to place her palms firmly on his desk, indicating in every way that she would not be dissuaded by the foulness of his mood.

"I am not one of your bumbling recruits, Cullen. You do not scare me with your growling," she countered with a withering look that would have lesser men soiling themselves in fear. " _And_ supervising the requisition of war dogs for the Inquisition is-"

"—currently not a pressing concern of mine. Our soldiers will be more than capable of taking the battlefield _without_ the questionable aid of slobbering hounds snapping at their ankles," he interrupted her still, despite knowing in his heart that the argument had been forfeit the moment the Seeker had wedged her steel-plated boot in his door.

Arching one elegant brow, Cassandra regarded him much like a Chantry Mother would a petulant child – which, in turn, only served to fuel his irritation more. If the woman wasn't such a formidable warrior and brilliant tactician, not to mention an esteemed friend, he would have tossed her out of his offices head first.

"The employment of war beasts in order to deter advancement of enemy troops is not only a time-honoured and highly distinguished practice in battle; it is also sound strategy, Commander. You are Ferelden. You should be agreeing with me," she prompted.

 _Oh, Maker._

"As loathe as I am to disappoint you, Cassandra," Cullen sneered, even as he felt the fight bleeding from his veins, "I feel compelled to remind you that I used to be a _Templar_ , not some backwater Mabari war lord."

Cassandra simply smiled at him. She knew he was preparing to surrender.

"Nevertheless, you _are_ Ferelden, Cullen. You are also the Commander of the Inquisition. As such, you are tasked with inspecting and outfitting _all_ our troops, regardless of slobber."

Cullen sighed, knowing when he had been bested. There was nothing left to do but yield.

"I assume the Inquisitor has already approved this nonsense?"

The Seeker stood up straight and clasped her hands together, positively aglow with satisfaction in her victory. "If you must know, it was _she_ who suggested that you travel to Killarney to meet with the kennel master yourself."

At this, he snapped to attention far too quickly for his own liking. "What?"

"I believe her exact words were: _I have the utmost trust in the Commander's judgement on this very important matter,"_ Cassandra relayed with a smugness he could only assume came from knowing altogether too much.

 _Damn that woman._

"And—" Cullen hesitated, suddenly feeling a compelling need to push around the stacks of reports and correspondence cluttering his desk, "did sh—did the _Inquisitor_ say anything else?"

Cassandra now made appallingly little effort to hide her crowing. "Only that she regrets to have been delayed in her own travels, and that she hopes to see us all in good health upon her return."

"Oh. I mean, yes. Of course," he mumbled, flummoxed.

It had been more than six weeks since Lady Trevelyan and her small party had left for the Exalted Plains. Already several weeks longer than originally intended by the Inquisitor, who upon her arrival had sent word back to Skyhold, detailing the situation in the war-ridden land of Dirthavaren as "far more severe than anticipated."

With each passing day, Cullen felt her absence more keenly than he would like to admit.

"But what of my duties—" he made one final attempt at protest, but his heart was no longer in it.

"I will be more than happy to oversee our troops until you return," Cassandra cut off his grousing, brushing him off with an impatient sweep of her hand while idly leafing through his battered copy of _The Exalted Marches: An Examination of Chantry Warfare_.

He reclined in his chair, folding his arms over his chest. "You have put quite a lot of thought into this, haven't you?"

She discarded the tome with disinterest, but did not rise to the bait, too content with her triumph. "Are you implying that I am usually too rash in my decisions, Commander?"

"Lady Pentaghast, you wound me."

With a weary sigh, Cassandra schooled her expression into one of earnest concern.

"Cullen, you are not well. I think it would do you good to—get _away_ for a little while," she added meaningfully.

Cullen felt himself go rigid, his mouth furling into tight line.

"I am perfectly capable of doing my job, Cassandra. I believe we both agreed _you_ would see to that," he said icily.

"I _did—_ you _are—_ oh, _Maker_ , she defended herself, clearly frustrated with his standoffish attitude. Making a visible effort to steel herself, she tried again. "I think you are more than capable of doing your job, Commander. I would have thought the esteem with which I regard your abilities would be more than evident by now."

Cullen felt the nagging of guilt in the back of his head, adding to the already incessant pounding of his increasingly colossal headache. The subject of his lyrium withdrawal and consequential ailments always made him lot pricklier than he cared to be.

Cassandra only wanted to help. He knew that.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I know you mean well."

"Yes, I do," she asserted firmly, but the tone of her voice was kind. "You look ghastly, Cullen. You are running yourself into the ground. When was the last time you had something to eat, or even slept properly?"

"To be perfectly honest, I'm not sure."

Cassandra regarded him with open apprehension, but he needed not ask her why. Cullen _knew_ he was an absolute fright to behold; his skin had taken to an unnaturally sickly pallor, the purple discolouration under his eyes more prominent than ever.

"Are the symptoms getting worse?"

"They are not getting any better," he admitted. "Though it comes and goes."

That was true enough. Some days Cullen would wake up and feel almost _fine_. Usually slightly feverish and always tired, but otherwise fit as a fiddle.

Other days, it seemed implausible that he would even be able to sit upright. On those days he barred himself in his office, burying his tremors and cold sweats beneath mountains of paperwork, all the while issuing strict orders not to be disturbed unless Skyhold was on fire.

The nights were still the worst. When the walls in his loft closed in, and he lay clamouring for his next breath.

Perhaps a journey to Killarney would offer up a welcome distraction after all.

"If you would be kind enough to make the necessary preparations, Seeker, I will leave for Ferelden at first light," Cullen consented without further struggle.

"I am glad of it," Cassandra replied with a tight-lipped smile. Having obviously completed her task to satisfaction, she then made for the door, but paused just shy of closing it behind her.

"You can always come to me for help, Commander. I trust you know that," she offered him with a final look over her shoulder.

She did not wait for his reply, leaving him once again alone with his thoughts.

Cullen knew, of course. He would never have trusted Cassandra Pentaghast with his innermost shame, if he did not deem her worthy of keeping his secrets. He also knew that any council she offered would usually be prudent, but still. There were some things he liked to keep to himself.

Suddenly feeling like his pauldrons were far too heavy for his shoulders, he turned his attention back to the tasks at hand. After all, there was much to be done, if he was to go see a man about a dog.

At least the journey to Killarney wasn't overly long. It wouldn't take more than three days to get there, and another three to get back, provided that everything was in order with the infernal beasts, and they didn't run into any trouble on the road. Perhaps the Inquisitor would even make it back before him.

As his thoughts turned once again to one raven haired Lady Herald, he felt the familiar clench in the lower part of his stomach.

She was so. So—

Oh, so _very_ so.

Cullen wasn't quite sure when his feelings for Evelyn Trevelyan had gone from mild infatuation to fully formed admiration and desire. He had certainly always found her comely, with intelligent eyes clear as glass and a rather attractive mouth. But somewhere between Haven and Skyhold, his fond appraisal had become something _more._

He had always had a weakness for tenacious women. Having grown up with two sisters, who were both as headstrong and assertive as they were soft and compliant, he supposed it had been instilled in him from early age. As a young Templar in the Ferelden Circle, that proclivity had even caused him a great deal of heartache.

 _But nothing like this._

She was positively maddening, especially on days when his fever would spike, and the blood rushed through his veins like wildfire.

Sometimes he thought it might all be due to his lyrium deprived state. But then his eyes would be glued to the way she worried her bottom lip during their war councils, and he could only think about pulling it between his own. He'd forget where he was or what they were discussing; he'd even forget his own name, until Ambassador Montilyet would fix him with a stare that clearly expected some sort of answer to some sort of question. But all his treacherous mind would whisper to him was _Evelyn_.

"Cullen, you're a damned fool," he muttered under his breath.

A fool who had now been roped into herding a pack of frothing war hounds to Skyhold by Cassandra Pentaghast. It seemed it was his destiny to be rendered subservient to the iron forged women of the Inquisition.

Despite being of Ferelden, Cullen didn't know much about Mabari at all, except that they were big, ugly and had caused "dog lord" to be one of the more frequent insults hurled at his kind. He'd never really cared much for dogs himself, although he and Branson had sometimes played fetch with the blacksmith's mutt in Honnleath as boys.

He supposed he'd see for himself soon enough if these creatures really lived up to their legend.

* * *

Come sunrise, Cullen found himself in the courtyard, preparing to mount his black destrier and set out for Killarney. Cassandra had made good on her word to make all the necessary arrangements, so it was little effort on his part that saw him riding out of Skyhold with half a dozen armed men and three large, wheeled cages in tow.

It was a fine day for travelling as well, as the sky was clear and the wind gentle, only occasionally running its wispy fingers through his pauldron furs. As they steadily descended from the Frostbacks and into the grassy wilderness of the Hinterlands, Cullen even forewent his usual gloves and vambraces, the sun tenderly warming his hands and face.

Cassandra had been right. He had been cooped up inside for _far_ too long.

For a long while, it appeared that luck was on his side. If there were any bandits or highwaymen in the area, it seemed they were less than inclined to go up against the fully armored Commander of the Inquisition astride his black stallion, not to mention a handful of his best soldiers. Once or twice they would happen upon a surly bear, but made short work of it.

He found himself wondering if Lady Trevelyan was faring just as well in the Exalted Plains, when a wheel on one of the cages hit a sizeable pothole hidden beneath a patch of tall grass.

"Commander, it appears we are stuck," one his men reported to him after briefly surveying the damage. "Also, the wheel shaft broke when it went in, but nothing we cannot repair once we get it out," he finished, looking half like he expected Cullen to hit him over the head with something heavy.

Sighing, the Commander hoisted himself out of the saddle. "Alright men, let's put our backs into it, shall we?"

A good deal of heaving and hauling later, the wheel was out and the men set to work on mending the broken shaft. Wiping his hands on his trousers to remove some of the muck, Cullen took the opportunity to get his bearings.

This particular part of the Hinterlands seemed more or less untouched by the Breach, as well as the unrest between Templars and Mages. There wasn't much to see except for trees and rolling hills, but judging from the Inquisitors accounts of her dealings in the area, it would be an entirely different story the further they moved down the Kingsroad.

At least the road itself still seemed to be in decent shape, except for occasional bump. Presuming they would be on their way again within the hour, they should be in Redcliffe before nightfall.

"Commander, a raven for you."

Cullen turned to look at the soldier who had appeared at his side, now holding out a missive for him. He accepted it wordlessly, wondering who it was from. They had only been gone half a day; surely Cassandra could not already be in need of his assistance?

As the soldier returned to the repairs, Cullen flipped the missive to examine the seal, and promptly felt his stomach drop to his feet.

The Inquisitor. _Evelyn_ , his wretched brain immediately whispered to him.

 _Why would the Inquisitor write to him?_

 _She always sent her reports to Leliana._

Staring dumbfounded at the neatly folded paper in his hands for another second or two, he then tore open the seal and quickly let his eyes skim over her elegant hand.

 _Cullen,_

 _Cassandra informs me that you have agreed to see Master Harrigan's war dogs from Killarney to Skyhold. When this message reaches you, I am sure you will already be on your way there, but even so, I wanted to thank you for handling this matter personally. I know you have much other business to tend to._

 _We are all well, although the Exalted Plains are severely trying for the soul. There is much death and sadness here, but Dorian is doing his best to convince me that we at least have taken some measures to help the poor people taken hostage in the Orlesian civil war. We will be ready to return soon, but not for another week or so._

 _Apart from wanting to express my gratitude, there is one other reason for my letter: In Redcliffe, there is a man. An old widower by the name of Arros, for whom I promised to bring fresh flowers to the grave of his late wife, as the dangers on the road did not permit him to go on his own. I found the grave and cleaned it best I could, but I'm afraid that in the midst of all the complications with Alexius and the mages, I never got the chance to tell him._

 _If you happen upon him in Redcliffe, would you please pass on this message for me? Tell him that the ashes of his wife will be gathered by Falon'Din and carried safely._

 _In hope that you are in good health,_

 _Inquisitor Trevelyan_

Reading the letter once more just to make sure he didn't skip over anything important, Cullen couldn't help but let a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth. Even with the sky falling on her head and all of Thedas crumbling at the cusp of war, she still had the presence of mind to remember one small widower in Redcliffe.

 _Lady Evelyn Trevelyan, you will be the death of me._

He was of half a mind to pen a reply at once, but then thought better of it, not wanting to make empty promises he couldn't keep. If he was unable to locate the widower or found him dead, that would be bitter draught to swallow.

Right then and there, amongst the mossy stones and moors of the Hinterlands, Cullen swore to himself that he would do everything in his power to track down this Arros and give him the Inquisitor's blessings.

* * *

They reached the village just as the dusk began to settle. A few fireflies had begun their slow, intricate dance as the small Inquisition party dismounted. Cullen ordered the men to rub down the horses and see them fed, before they went to Gull & Lantern to secure a hot meal and warm beds for themselves.

Meanwhile, he set out to find the widower.

It wasn't nearly as difficult as he had feared. Redcliffe was a smallish village after all, and he found that the Inquisition was more than a welcome sight amongst its people. Another circumstance they owed to the kindness of Evelyn Trevelyan, it seemed.

Asking for directions soon led him down to the docks. An old fishwife pointed him towards a small stone alcove covered in vines and flowers of green and white. It was there that he found what he was looking for.

"Master Arros?"

Looking up from where he sat on a bench, the elven man broke into a smile upon seeing the crest on his shield. "I am nobody's master, Ser Knight."

"I am Commander Cullen of the Inquisition. I bring you a message from the Inquisitor."

"Oh?"

"She said to tell you that—that your wife has her flowers. And that her ashes will be gathered by Falon'Din and carried safely—"

"—after all the long years she carried me," the widower finished solemnly. Regarding Cullen silently for a minute, he seemed to be mulling something over. "She sent you just to tell me that? Her Commander?"

"I am headed further east, but Inquisition business has brought us through Redcliffe. She asked me to give you this message, should I happen upon you," Cullen explained, feeling a strange twinge in his chest upon being described as _hers_.

"Did she really? What a remarkable woman."

Cullen found it hard to disagree.

"And fortunate, to have a dutiful man such as yourself leading her forces. I thank you for your great kindness," the widower said. "Please relay my gratitude to the Inquisitor. She had more important things to do than helping old man, yet she did it anyway."

"You have my word," he promised.

"May the Creators watch over you, Commander."

Cullen then bid the old man farewell. He left him sitting on the bench where he found him, looking towards the last rays of the setting sun reaching across the water, staring at something only he could see.

* * *

 _Inquisitor,_

 _Thank you for your letter. I am glad to hear that you are well, despite what unimaginable horrors I am sure the Exalted Plains have to offer._

 _I should also thank you for your kind words, though there is no need for gratitude. As the Commander of the Inquisition's Forces, I am sworn to do anything and everything you require of me. As for the Mabari, I only hope they will find my Ferelden hide too tough and_ _unsavoury_ _for their palates. I am currently in Redcliffe, but will continue my journey for Killarney on the morrow._

 _I found your widower. He was glad of your message, more so than my inadequate pen could ever say._

 _Skyhold looks forward to your return,_

 _Commander Rutherford_

 _Safe travels._

* * *

It was not two days later that Cullen found himself on the slopes of the Southron Hills. Shielding his eyes from the midday sun, he could just barely glimpse the vast and dark wilderness of the Brecilian Forest in the distance.

Since Redcliffe, their journey had been blessedly uneventful. Though much of the land was marred by the rebellions, there was also the gentle kindling of hope. Wherever their party went, words of encouragement and praise were offered to the men riding under the banner of the Inquisition. After the second day, Cullen promised himself that he would make a point of mentioning this at the next war council. If nothing else, then just to make sure that Lady Trevelyan knew of the difference she had made to the people of Thedas.

The ride from the hills was a short one. Killarney was nestled comfortably in a small valley just a few miles ahead; a settlement of little consequence, save for the kennel of Master Harrigan. From the requisition reports supplied to him by Cassandra, Cullen understood that the Mabari of South Reach were of incomparable repute.

The kennel master himself was not at all what the Commander had envisioned. Harrigan was slight and weathered from age, a far cry from the brutish thugs Cullen usually associated with hold beasts. A Formari with benevolent hands that would idly scratch the ear of a particularly mean-looking dog, as he discussed the details of the transaction with Cullen.

His grip, however, was firm as they shook hands upon sealing their agreement.

"Twenty of my strongest and fastest hounds, along with two of my best handlers for the Inquisition. You have made a fine bargain here today, Commander. These dogs will jump though fire if my men tell them to, make no mistake," Harrigan said as he walked the Cullen and his men to the enclosures to inspect the creatures.

"I certainly hope so, Master Harrigan," Cullen replied, resisting the urge to cover his ears as mad barking greeted them from all sides. The deafening noise of what had to be more than sixty full-grown Mabari assaulted his eardrums and gave rise to a very familiar ache in the back of his skull.

Maker's breath. If this was any indication of what bringing war dogs to Skyhold would entail, he would have no choice but to relocate his offices to the wine cellar.

" _Quiet,_ " the kennel master commanded, barely raising his voice. But it was enough. As if by some invisible force, each and every beast in the enclosures fell silent, looking to their pack leader with obedient servility and wagging tails.

Cullen quirked a brow. "Impressive."

"A dog is only as good as the man holding his leash, Commander," Harrigan simply remarked, then waved over two men who were waiting nearby. "This here is Seggir and Hamish, your Mabari handlers. They will travel with the dogs to Skyhold, see to their daily care and training, and lead them into battle on your orders."

After another round of shaking hands, they began to make the necessary preparations for their departure, transferring the dogs from the enclosures to the transport cages. The men seemed more than a little wary of sharp teeth and powerful jaws, but the beasts were docile enough, following the lead of their handlers without question.

Confident that his soldiers were up for the task without the need for supervision, Cullen gladly accepted a drink when Harrigan offered. He followed the kennel master into the main house, which turned out to be the warm and smoky living quarters of the master himself and his wife; a plump little woman named Corliss, with cheeks that flushed a healthy shade of red as she brought the handsome young Commander a heated cup of spiced West Hill brandy.

"I must confess that my knowledge of the Mabari has little merit, Master Harrigan, but from what I have seen here, your work is commendable," Cullen complimented the man, the warmth from the drink settling pleasantly in his belly.

"Thank you, Commander," Harrigan replied earnestly. "I am honoured to be of assistance to the Inquisition." Pausing, he then regarded Cullen with interest. "You are Ferelden, are you not?"

"I am. I grew up in Honnleath, near Redcliffe."

"Not all Ferelden men will appreciate the many qualities of a well-trained war hound, but I can tell you have an eye for good breeding and a loyal heart," Harrigan said, with all the convictions of a man who was used to being right.

The Commander did not exactly feel compelled to agree, opting for smiling politely over the brim of his cup instead. "How long have you been a master of kennels?"

"Almost twenty years. Any war hound in Ferelden worth having has come from my stock," the master replied with unabashed pride.

Whatever Cullen was about to offer in reply slipped away from him, when he suddenly felt something stirring at his feet. Looking down, he was greeted by a pair of large brown eyes and a wet snout.

"Oh," he said, wriggling his foot in a gentle attempt to shoo the wayward Mabari pup. The creature did not budge however, but remained firmly rooted at his boots, as if it had been called to heel.

Noticing his discomfort, Harrigan rose to push the dog away. "Don't mind him none, Commander," he said, as the pup deigned to move a few feet before settling beneath a chair. "He's just a runt from the last litter. I keep him in the house because the other dogs would kill him, and I fear my Corliss has been spoiling him rotten."

"I see," Cullen said, trying not to notice how the dog's eyes were still fixed on him, like it expected something. Casting a sidelong glance at the kennel master's wife, who was fluttering about in the kitchen, the Commander decided this particular _something_ was likely to be a treat.

Finishing his brandy, Cullen thanked Master Harrigan for his hospitality. He then went outside to check on the men.

The preparations appeared to be progressing well enough; the handlers were loading the last of the supplies onto a wagon, bringing enough food and equipment to last them through a Blight, it seemed. They would be on the road soon.

Cullen had to admit he was pleased that Cassandra had talked him into overseeing this task. The journey had not been the nuisance he'd expected. Quite the contrary, it had been a sorely needed change of pace. He'd eaten well, he'd slept even better, and all the fresh air had done wonders for his miserable appearance.

If everything continued to pan out to his satisfaction, he would be back at Skyhold three days hence, ready to assume his duties with rejuvenated energy and fervour.

 _And the Inquisitor would return soon._

Cullen's thoughts had just barely turned to black hair and a smiling mouth, when he once again felt a nudging at his boot. Looking down, he was less than thrilled to discover the pup from before. It seemed it had followed him out of the house, apparently resolute in its desire to be in his way.

"No."

The pup cocked its head, undeterred.

" _No,_ " he repeated more firmly, with all the sternness he usually reserved for his recruits. "Go away."

He might as well have been ordering a druffalo to move. The dog did not budge, not even for the Commander of the Inquisition.

Cullen frowned. What a pathetic looking thing it was anyway. Stubby little legs and only one ear standing to attention, the other one floppy and slightly bigger. It seemed almost prudent of Master Harrigan to have taken it into the house; the other Mabari would have eaten it alive.

"I have no treats," he tried, then immediately felt silly. It was a _dog_ , not a child to be reasoned with.

The pup gave a short yap. Cullen gave up and tried to step around it, except when he moved, it moved with him.

" _Come here, you little devil._ "

He saw that the kennel master's wife had come out of the house and was now hurrying towards him as fast as her legs would carry her. Upon reaching him, she promptly gathered the pup in her arms, apology written all over her face.

"I'm sorry, Commander," she flustered. "It seems this little imp will try to escape every time I turn my back."

"No cause for concern, Mistress Harrigan," Cullen replied with a smile. "He was not snapping at my heels, you need not fear retaliation from me."

She seemed reassured by this. "He is worse than any mutt, but I am afraid the fault is my own. I always spoil the ones who are to be put down."

"Put down?"

"Well, yes. He's is too small to make a good war hound, nor is he fit for breeding," she explained. "It's always unpleasant business to get rid a healthy animal, but if my husband were to keep all the stragglers, we would have no food left for our own mouths."

"Oh, yes. I see," he said, suddenly feeling a little peculiar.

Much later, Cullen would still find great trouble in explaining to others what had possessed him in that moment. It hadn't been sentiment, that much was certain. Nor had he felt particularly soft-hearted or magnanimous that morning in Killarney. Even so, the next words out of his mouth had surprised even himself.

"How much?"


End file.
